Voices of the Apocalypse: The Collection

by Simone Pond

  Morgan sat quietly, eyeing Cory. “I have to agree with you on that point. Not sure about the rest. Either way, I don’t wanna die in this pod. We gotta get Voss to turn this thing around.”

  “I tried. Look where it got me.”

  “Maybe if we ban together we can talk some sense into him?” Morgan suggested.

  “There ain’t no sense in that fool,” Cory said.

  “Well, shit. I’m just gonna pray then.” Morgan bowed his head.

  “That’s right, man. If God is for us, who can be against us?” Cory followed suit.

  Nick folded his palms together and started mumbling incoherent words. Cory nudged him to keep quiet, worried the other men would oppose, but when he looked down the row, he saw the other men bowing their heads in prayer.

  Voss stalked down the narrow aisle, smacking the back of their heads, but the men continued praying. “What the hell’s going on with you saps?” he yelled.

  Cory stood up, ready to face his adversary. “Looks like there are no atheists in fox holes, Chief.”

  “Shut up, you dumb––”

  “Dumb what?”

  “Don’t make me lose my shit, E6. I warned you already.”

  “You gonna beat me to death with all of these men watching?”

  “I’m about ready to throw you overboard.”

  “Don’t matter what you do.” Cory smiled, feeling the strength of a thousand angels at his back.

  Before anyone said another word, the driver jerked the lifeboat around, causing both Voss and Cory to drop.

  “What the hell’s going on up there, Walker?” Voss yelled over the commotion.

  “We got incoming!” Walker shouted, maneuvering the lifeboat out of the line of fire.

  Something hit the water with the force of a plane crashing into a building, lifting the lifeboat and flipping it upside down. Voss grabbed Cory and the two slammed against the ceiling, then ricocheted to the backend of the pod. The waves rocked the lifeboat up and down, flipping it over and over. The other men held onto their straps, while Cory and Voss shot around like two pinballs.

  “Get us outta this,” Voss yelled to Walker.

  Walker managed to get the boat to ride along the current of aftershocks, jetting away from where the missile had hit. Voss settled back into his seat and strapped in. Cory remained standing. “I think my point has been confirmed, sir. We should head east toward Africa.”

  “Sit down and shut your pie hole,” Voss ordered.

  “I agree with Anderson,” Morgan said.

  “Me too,” Nick added.

  “We all do, Chief,” another officer said.

  “Not sure how many more near misses we have left in us,” Walker shouted from the front. “Anderson is right. I’m heading east.”

  Voss was outnumbered.

  “We can try hitting the island of Vila Do Corvo. Maybe we can find some working communications devices and figure out what’s going on,” Cory suggested.

  “Fine. Just get us outta this water. You hear me, Walker?” Voss shouted.

  “Copy that.” Walker checked his compass, the only working device on the lifeboat.

  After a few hours of bobbing through the water, Walker jumped out of his chair. “I see land!”

  Voss unstrapped, moving to the front to investigate. The other men gathered around the driver’s hatch.

  “Right over there, two o’clock.” Walker pointed to a patch of green in the distance.

  “Bring us in and fast. I don’t trust these waters. Sit down, men,” Voss ordered.

  They ignored Voss and remained standing for the remainder of the ride, which lasted almost two hours.

  Walker got the lifeboat close enough to the shore, and once they were safely anchored, Voss opened the hatch for the men to exit. They jumped into the lukewarm water and swam to the beach. Relieved to touch ground, some dropped to their knees and kissed the sand. Cory wasn’t sure which island they had landed on, but he was grateful to be out of the escape pod and breathing fresh air.

  “Praise you, sweet Jesus.” Nick stretched out his arms, gazing up to the turquoise sky.

  The seven men walked along the shore, scoping out the island. Voss steered them toward an incline to get a better view. They climbed up the hill, which soon became steep, craggy terrain.

  Nick got to the top first. “Whoa,” he said.

  “What is it?” Voss shouted.

  Cory hoisted himself up and rolled next to Nick. He shielded his eyes to keep out the blinding sun, looking in the direction Nick pointed. Across the canyon, sitting on a hillside, perched an enormous fortress of brilliant white stone. The other men reached the top and stared at the structure.

  “It looks like Hearst’s Castle,” Morgan said.

  “Whose castle?” Nick asked.

  “Some newspaper baron megalomaniac from California,” Cory said.

  “Should we move in, Chief?” one of the men asked.

  “Absolutely. Not bad for a safe house.”

  A familiar twist coiled in Cory’s gut and once again he sensed something was off. “I think we should survey the place before we just walk up to it.”

  “When you’re chief, you can make that call. But for now, E6, you’re following my orders.” Voss trudged forward.

  The seven men hiked down the other side of the hill, through thick brush and jagged rocks. A calm came over Cory and he didn’t care if they were walking into a death trap. He already knew what was waiting for him on the other side––he had seen the light.

  Voss stopped at the edge of the trees and scanned the acres of green grass. He waved for the men to follow him down the cobblestone pathway to the castle’s entrance. They passed by a couple of fountains and a rose garden. The grounds reminded Cory of an English countryside, which he thought was strange since they were on an island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

  The pack of men approached the entrance, and Voss used the heavy iron doorknocker. Cory remained behind the others, keeping an observant eye on their surroundings.

  Voss turned to the men, grinning. “If this place is empty, I call first dibs on the sleeping quarters.”

  The door opened and a butler wearing a black suit appeared. “Welcome to Castelo de Carlos.” He stepped to the side. “Do come in. Master Carlos is waiting for you in the study.”

  “How’d he know we were here?” Voss asked.

  “We have eyes all over the island and beyond.”

  The butler escorted the men down a long hallway laced with exquisite decor and paintings that looked like they belonged in a museum. Cory noticed a painting of the Mona Lisa, and wondered if it was a replica. They followed the pristine white marble floors until they arrived at a door made of crystal. The butler typed in an access code and stepped to the side. The men walked into the oval-shaped room and the door slid shut, locking them in. The small white space was empty and without a single window.

  “What the hell’s this crap?” Voss asked.

  Cory kept his mouth shut. Voss should have listened to his suggestion about checking out the place first.

  Lights flashed and an image materialized on the wall. It came into focus, revealing a wrinkly, age-spotted Spanish man with a thick gray mustache. “I see that some of you survived the attack and miraculously found your way to my island.”

  Cory’s gut caved in. He knows about the attack.

  “We weren’t expecting any survivors, let alone company. But since you’re already here on my island, I’ve decided to let you live.”

  Voss punched Cory’s shoulder and smiled. “See, it’s all good.”

  “You will remain here as my personal slaves, working in the fields with the others. At least until the Repatterning has ended and I can rejoin my people. After that, I’m afraid there won’t be use for you.”

  The image of Carlos disappeared and the marble floor began to lower down.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Voss yelled, stumbling over his own feet.

  “Sounds like we
just got new assignments, Chief,” Cory said, sarcastically.

  “You think this is funny, E6?” Voss held up his fist to punch Cory, but never made contact––a red laser beam shot across the room, straight into Voss’s forehead. He dropped down hard.

  The men left him on the ground, not wanting to trigger another red laser. Cory wondered if Voss was dead, or just knocked out. As the floor continued sinking, Voss remained stone cold and motionless, his lifeless eyes stuck open.

  The floor reached the bottom and the panels opened. Two hulk-like guards entered. One bent down and dragged Voss away, and that was the end of him. The other guard stood before the men. “Line up and strip down,” he ordered.

  Cory glanced at Nick, who was fumbling with the buttons on his blue shirt. Things on the island were only going to get worse.

  “Nick,” he said.

  “Keep quiet!” the guard yelled.

  Cory didn’t care about the guard, or the horrible situation. He already knew where he was going. He smiled at Nick and began singing his favorite hymn. “My life goes on in endless song . . .”

  - The End -

  Stardust Gone

  THE WAVES CRASHED onto the shore with a snarl. A sense of satisfaction swelled in Christy’s broken heart—at least the Pacific Ocean would never change its ways. The shimmering dark blue water was the one thing the Repatterning couldn’t touch. At the beach, she could always find solace and clear away the prickly thoughts that haunted her messed up life. It had been that way since the first day she arrived in Los Angeles, after leaving Dodge City at the age of fifteen.

  She had moved out west with a backpack and a mission to “make it” in Hollywood. Christy Cullens was going to be somebody. The lofty idea had been planted in her mind at a young age, with the constant barrage of people saying, “You’re such a pretty little thing. With those sparkling blue eyes, you could be a movie star.”

  By the time she was thirteen, she had an itch in her soul that couldn’t be scratched by staying in her shitty hometown—she had get out. Her obsession with Hollywood concealed her real motivation for wanting to leave: her abusive father and drug-addicted mother. She’d tell her classmates, “I’m too big for this freeway-stop, nothing town.” Her attitude didn’t bode well with the other kids at Rosemont High, but she didn’t care what they thought. She focused on her dream and quietly squirreled away money for a Greyhound ticket. Banking on her beauty was a surefire way to achieve her financial goals. Turns out a pretty little thing with sparkling blue eyes can make a lot of money spending private time with local politicians and businessmen. Being an opportunist turned out to be a perfect skill for a place like Los Angeles. Shortly after Christy arrived in Tinseltown, it didn’t take long for her to become the entertainment industry’s little darling. And though she had won many awards, acting wasn’t her strong suit.

  The thundering waves brought Christy back into the moment, and she shoved her feelings further down into the treasure chest of regrets.

  “Hey,” a man’s voice interrupted her meditation.

  She turned to see a strapping fellow in white tennis shorts and a light blue polo shirt, his highlighted blond hair shellacked into place. The smirk on his tanned face indicated he was looking for some questionable company––the seedier the better. Many of her wealthy “visitors” had a secret desire for lesser companions. She didn’t grasp the concept, but she had seen it enough to know it was true. Men with everything enjoyed screwing people with nothing. And Christy had nothing.

  For the last few months, she had been sleeping under the Santa Monica Pier with the other stragglers and degenerates affected by the Repatterning. Before everything came crashing down, Christy had straddled the lap of luxury. She had a multi-million dollar home in Pasadena, a Bentley with her very own driver, and closets lined with designer gowns and matching jewelry. But the Repatterning changed everything, and the entertainment industry no longer existed. Though she had lost it all, she still had her beauty, but that was starting to decline from living outside like a hobo for the past five months. She had been hoping one of her wealthy visitors would offer salvation, or at least a place to crash, but as the months rolled on, it was clear she needed a new plan.

  “Hey,” she said, sweetly to the man. “Looking for some company?” She bit her bottom lip ever so softly. Something she had perfected during the filming of her breakout movie, Running for Cover, where she played a teenage runaway who fell in love with a fallen angel during her travels. The movie yielded her first Oscar.

  “I came down to see the water, but then I saw you sitting here all alone. I thought you could use a friend.” He smiled with a mouthful of bleached teeth.

  Christy didn’t recognize the guy from her regulars, but she knew his type well. His idea of a friend was someone who’d get on all fours and bark like a dog. The thought made her stomach cringe, but she hadn’t eaten in a few days and needed some money. Maybe Biff––or whatever his name was––would have some sympathy and offer to help her get back on her feet. Or least offer a hot shower, a meal, and a bed for a couple nights. Anything would be better than sleeping in the stench of urine and rotting fish under the Santa Monica Pier.

  She stood up, brushing away the sand from her long tan legs. Her white blouse drifted open in the breeze, revealing a black bikini top that encased her perky 36Cs.

  “I’m always in the mood for company.” She used her most innocent voice, conjuring up her girlish charm.

  “My name is Breese. Why don’t we take a stroll?” He extended his manicured hand. What she wouldn’t do for a manicure. He reached around her waist and escorted her toward the parking lot.

  For a brief moment, she felt like she should turn around and run. It could be a trap. The new breed of law enforcement––the Planners––had been cracking down. What if they wanted to put the washed-up movie star in prison? Although, getting locked up for solicitation might not be any worse than living at the beach. She decided to ignore her instincts and walked with Breese to a black town car at the far end of the empty lot. The back door opened. Christy’s stomach knotted up to the size of a marble. Pausing, she calculated if she could make it back to the pier, where one of the stragglers might protect her. Before she made any moves, Breese shoved her into the backseat. He squeezed in next to her and slammed the door. She didn’t bother screaming.

  A person sat across from her, but she could only see shadows. Once her eyes adjusted from being outside, she noticed a man in a black suit and sunglasses. It only took another second to realize it was her former manager––the one who tossed her aside when the entertainment industry went south––Bob Sanders. For years, she had bent over backward for him (literally), making him a very wealthy man, but when her money ran out and she lost everything, Bob turned her away.

  “Bob Sanders.” She reached out to claw his face.

  Breese pulled her back into the seat and strapped on her seatbelt.

  “Don’t touch me.” She straightened herself, buttoning up her blouse.

  “You don’t need to be so dramatic, Christy. The cameras are long gone,” Bob said.

  She remembered that jeering smile, it meant something not so pleasant was coming.

  “How’d you even find me?”

  “You’re an ex-movie star who’s turning tricks down at the pier. Not too difficult.”

  “That’s funny, Bob. Always loved your sense of humor. So what is this? What could you possibly want with me?”

  “I have a thing for damaged goods.” He lit up a cigarette. A real one. Christy would’ve screwed both men and the driver for a real cigarette. Bob took a few drags, then offered it to Christy, and though she wanted just one little puff to satisfy her itch, she turned it down.

  “No thanks. I don’t want your charity.”

  “Small-town pride won’t win you any favors.” In the past, Bob chastised her when she turned down crappy parts, or special appearances that comprised her slowly burgeoning integrity.

  “I don�
�t need anything from you, Bob.”

  “That’s not what you said six months ago.” He laughed, blowing smoke in her direction.

  He was right. Six months ago, she went to his office in Century City, begging for help. She said she’d do anything. Her movie career had already hit the gravel and she had sold everything just to keep the lights on in her Pasadena home. Then the bank foreclosed on her property. Christy walked away with a backpack stuffed with some T-shirts and a hardcopy of the children’s book she had written, The Adventures of Pretty Penny. That was all that remained from her stardom days. She went to Bob because she had nowhere else to go. He sat behind his desk, gloating at the fallen star, and offered the other half of his roast beef sandwich and possibly some cash. But first she’d have to remove her clothes. Then he invited a few colleagues into his office. Still naked, Christy served them Scotch while reciting lines from her movies. After some laughs, Bob handed her a weathered twenty-dollar bill and told her to spend it wisely. That was the most humiliating day of her life. One that haunted her at night.

  Sitting across from the tormentor, she balled up her fists to keep herself in check. Whatever Bob was planning couldn’t be good. The pier with the smell of urine and rotting fish didn’t seem so bad anymore. She needed to get out of that car. She pulled on the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “You can’t hold me prisoner. You’re not my manager. You’re nothing!” she yelled, kicking at his shins.

  “Christy, baby. You signed on the dotted line. There’s no getting out of our contract.”

  “Bullshit. The movie industry is dead. You don’t hold the rights to my life.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart. You sold your soul to me when you came to town with that ratty backpack and a dream. You sat in my office, staring at me with those pretty baby blues. Remember what you said?”

  “It was a long time ago,” she mumbled.

  “Let me remind you. You said: ‘I wanna be a star and I’ll do anything to be somebody.’ Well darling, I made you somebody and that means you belong to me.”